


Warning: These Mistakes Will Destroy Your Lamb

by RedneckWerewolf



Series: Who is The Lamb and Who is The Knife [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: i was gonna tag this with the relationship but rly.., it's too soon for that, the wasteland canonically has better healthcare than the US, uuuhhhhhh this is the earlier part when lamb gets sick, which would be funny if we weren't u know.. dyin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2018-12-24 23:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12023520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedneckWerewolf/pseuds/RedneckWerewolf
Summary: Early on in their relationship, Danse and Lamb have some issues that don't get worked out, aka Lamb is depressed af and hides it and a serious illness from him. This leads to Danse having to haul ass to Sanctuary so he doesn't lose yet another soldier under his command. Then he has to socialize with normal people while she recovers.





	1. Good Old Fashioned Pneumonia and Depression

   Lamb decided she wasn’t going to tell Danse that she was sick. Being a little feverish and coughing was no big deal. She also decided not to let him see how far her mental state had fallen since they’d set out together. She especially didn’t want him to know since she’d nearly gotten them killed by a swarm of feral ghouls.

   Lamb hadn’t been paying attention, lagging behind in a haze of thought and exhaustion, stumbled and fallen into the loudest pile of trash possible, alerted several ferals slumbering in a pile of wrecked cars nearby, and had fallen when they moved to retreat. Danse had to stop and cover her while she flopped uselessly on the ground like a landed fish. Lamb had been trying to catch her breath, but she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get up, couldn’t get a grip on her rifle. She couldn’t make herself useful.

   Danse’s reprimands made her chest ache even more. She knew there was an undercurrent of fear to his words; she knew that he didn’t want to lose anyone else under his command. But the past still had its grip on her, and the walls started going up and she started slipping even further down. She couldn’t be a burden, she couldn’t make problems for others, she’d be _fine_ , if only her chest wasn’t so tight and her breath so short.

…

   Later, during the night, Lamb huddled forlornly in her sleeping bag and watched the low flames of their fire. She was opposite Danse in the little room they’d taken shelter in. Their fire, contained in a mesh waste basket full of broken furniture, sat between them. She listened to the soft sounds he made while she tried to fend off the irrational thoughts gnawing at her.

   But she couldn’t get it together, she was too hot and too cold; her fever had gotten worse over the course of the day. She wheezed more than she breathed. Her coughs were causing Danse more and more worry but she kept reassuring him _I’m fine, it's just a cold, I’m fine, let’s just keep moving._

   He didn’t believe her, though he did believe that they could make to their destination before she got any worse. But Danse didn’t know how bad she already was. His last thoughts before falling asleep were about her, that maybe he shouldn’t have been pushing the sickly vault dweller so hard, that maybe he shouldn’t have shouted at her in the middle of the deserted street.

   Danse woke long before dawn, eyes snapping open at some noise he heard in his sleep. It took him a muddled few seconds to identify the sound. It was a wet, hacking cough that went on and on. He sat up, throwing his covers off, and quickly pulled on his boots. He nearly kicked over the waste basket of hot coals as he hurried across the small space.

   Lamb, the source of the wretched noise, was kneeling, body curled and heaving, with one braced arm on her sleeping bag while she smacked her chest ineffectively with the other. He saw tears streaming down her face as she struggled for a solid pull of air. Danse didn’t know how to help her other than to kneel beside her and wait it out. His hands hovered over her, unsure if he should touch her or not- most of his experience with choking like this involved something sharp embedded in the victim’s lungs.

   It took a long thirty seconds for the coughing to subside, ending with her spitting out a mouthful of bloody mucus onto the concrete. She gasped raggedly as she stared down at her sleeping bag. Lamb wasn’t seeing the blue fabric below her, but instead wet concrete painted vividly in red. The pain in her chest was almost the same as it was then, but now she wasn’t alone, she wasn’t _dying_ as she was then. The memory was jolted away as Danse put his hand on her back.

   “Knight, are you-“

 _“I… I’m fine,”_ she rasped, pushing her memories away. She sat back and started wiping her face with her shirt, still catching her breath.

   “No, you’re not. You need a doctor.” He stood up and started gathering up their gear. “We need to get to Sanctuary and contact Cambridge Station.”

   The spot where his hand had rested on Lamb’s back tingled. She couldn’t tell if it was from years of contact starvation or hurting herself while coughing.

   “The Minutemen in Sanctuary should have a radio we can use. We just need to get there first.”

   He eyed her, seeing how she trembled where she sat. She looked scared, too; he doubted Lamb would make it down the street under her own power.

   A few minutes later, Danse had everything packed and ready to sling onto his armor, save for one of Lamb’s loose blankets. His armor had been blocking the door, denying entry to any curious passerby. His helmet sat on the floor nearby. He jammed a fresh fusion core in and grabbed hold of the interior handles to climb up. He heard Lamb wheezing behind him.

   When it closed, he looped some braided rope over his shoulders and Lamb, quite weakly, lifted their packs over the bits of his armor that stuck out and settled the load into place. Danse secured some s-hooks attached at the ends to the handles on his torso on her cue. He'd found a large section of leather in Lamb’s pack and rolled it into a tube, duct taped it closed, and then taped it to the metal covering his right thigh.  He holstered his rifle in it.

   Lamb, now holding his helmet, was ready to lie down on the floor and die from that simple exercise, but Danse was already wrapping the blanket around her so she wouldn’t be bruised by his armor. She made a strange noise when he unexpectedly lifted her, somewhere between a cough and a surprised gasp. Danse had a sudden and _totally_ inappropriate thought that he’d like to make her make _more_ noises, albeit in better circumstances.  

   “You okay, Danse?” Lamb rasped. “You made a weird face.”

   He looked down at her, arranging a carefully neutral expression.

   “I’m alright, Knight. Let’s go.”

   He leaned forward in a way so Lamb could reach up and secure his helmet onto his head.

...

   Danse carefully stepped out into the early morning through a massive hole in the building's exterior wall. He estimated that they'd make it to Concord before the dawn's light changed from blue to gold. Lamb shifted the blanket to cover her face and Danse navigated the rubble to the clear path of the street.

   The trip was uneventful, with Lamb having to be let down a couple times to hack up blood and phlegm. After each fit, Danse had her drink at least half a can of water. He'd pull his helmet off and drink as well. 

   Danse approached the outskirts of Concord about ten minutes after the light fully changed and the air began to warm.

   The light caught the battered plates of his armor, yet no one made a target of them. Lamb had dozed off, spent from her last fit, and was limp and for all appearances, lifeless. Danse walked down one of the central streets and caught movement in the balconies and windows above them. He realized what was going on.

   Yes, there were raiders in Concord. Yes, they knew there was a Brotherhood soldier stomping around. But they thought he was carrying a body wrapped in a shroud, maybe bringing someone lost home.

   Danse was surprised that even these savages had  _some_ manner of decency. 

   He passed through the entirety of Concord undisturbed, the raiders keeping their distance, Lamb sleeping in his arms. The only thing that was vaguely an obstacle was the massive rotting carcass of what used to be a deathclaw in the middle of town near a museum. Even through the scavenger's damage and the natural decay, he could see the unmistakable wounds from a minigun. Danse adjusted the sensors in his helmet, just in case there were any more of the beasts lying in wait.

...

   Lamb woke back up and started wheezing while they were passing an empty Red Rocket station. 

   "We're almost there, Knight," Danse said, his voice tinny through his helmet, distressed at hearing how her breath had more of a rattle now.

   Another few minutes and he found a broken bridge, and on the other side, their destination. Halfway across he could see some turrets on either side of the bridge, an elevated guard post off to the side, and a man walking towards them.

  The rifle he held was pointed at the ground and obviously made from scrap, but the red glow of the refraction chamber showed that it was just as powerful as Danse's own laser rifle. The man wore a Minuteman's hat, a dusty beige coat, an embroidered green vest, and had a short-range radio attached to him. Danse stopped walking as the man slung his rifle onto his back and raised a hand in greeting. The two stood close enough that Danse could see his face, and the sad acceptance on it. The Minuteman thought he was carrying a corpse too.

   "This woman is extremely ill and needs medical attention. Do you have a radio I can use?" Danse asked, foregoing introductions completely. Lamb stirred and he watched the Minuteman's eyes widen.

   "Well, uh, yeah. We have a medic, too. Come with me," He replied, leading Danse into town.

    _Town_ was a pre-war cul-de-sac, if Danse remembered his terminology right. A few houses had been too damaged to renovate and were being dismantled for scrap. One of the foundations had been swept clean and a shack had been built on it. An antenna tower stuck out of the center of the structure, tethered by cables to concrete anchors in the earth surrounding the concrete pad. Danse was impressed, they had even attached a dish to the top of the tower. 

   "Sturges? You in there?" The Minuteman called as soon as they approached the open door.

   "Hey Preston!" A voice called from inside the shack. "What've ya got for me?"

   Sturges stepped out and Danse quickly took in his somewhat disheveled appearance, the grease-blackened rag in his hands. 

   "Member of the Brotherhood needs to use the radio," Preston replied, and glanced at Danse. "Sturges, do you know if Marcy is awake? She can probably help them."

   "Yeah, she's in their garden. Stopped by to drop off some bread not too long ago."

    "Okay. Thanks, Sturges," He said, looked relieved. "Let's get her taken care of first. Come on, I can put you up in Nick's room while he's gone."

   He led them to the yellow house that stood between the radio tower and the first destroyed house. Danse was glad to see that it had a functional power armor rack and several workbenches in the carport area. Preston explained that only a few houses were fit to live in, and that this 'Nick' person barely used his room on the occasion that he was even in town. Lamb had perked up during this, but Danse could see that she was getting anxious. 

   The room in the back of the house was fairly small, but it had a full sized bed with not only a mattress, but actual sheets and quilts. There was a desk and cabinet squeezed into the room, but there was still space that Danse could lay out his bed roll.

   Danse let Lamb down finally, leaving the blanket on the bed. She swayed where she stood, but she took the opportunity to hold out her trembling hand to Preston and introduce herself.

   The last thing Lamb remembered before passing out was the warmth of the Minuteman's hand on hers, and his small smile as she told him her name.

 

   

 


	2. How To Become Better With Danse In 10 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse and Lamb meet some of the residents of Sanctuary. Dogmeat is also there.  
> Bonus: "3 Ways Create Better Danse With The Help Of Your Dog"

   Danse opened his armor in the old carport outside. He thought he heard the Minuteman utter an appreciative _damn_ under his breath while he climbed out of his armor, but he couldn't be sure over the hiss of the hydraulics. He paused to run his gloved hand through his sweat-slicked hair. The fusion core had burned out at some point during the trip, and rather than stop to replace it and waste time, he'd simply muscled the heavy armor the rest of the way to Sanctuary. 

   The Paladin leaned back against one of the supports of the armor rack. Danse knew that if he allowed himself to sit, he wouldn't be getting back up for a while. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing on to the comm shack with Preston.

   Marcy walked in immediately after Lamb had fainted into Preston's arms and had taken charge; telling Preston to set her on the bed and for Danse to drop the packs and find some soft clothes for Lamb. Preston removed the load from his back and no sooner had the pajamas left Danse's outstretched gauntlet was Marcy shooing both men out. Danse figured it was for the best, since he was taking up half the room in his armor. He realized right after the door clicked shut behind them that he hadn't even thought to get a word in, not to even tell Marcy what was wrong with Lamb.

   He heard Lamb coughing from inside the house, the front door still open. He snapped out of his thoughts.

   "Marcy's got experience with coughs like that. She'll be fine until the Doc's caravan gets here. Should be tomorrow or the next day, he's always on schedule," Preston reassured him. 

   Preston  had watched with some awe as Danse stepped out of his armor, and had been ogling it while Danse had been gathering wool. He envied the paladin.

   Danse itched to perform regular maintenance, but he needed to radio in to his squad. He'd need to stay in this settlement until his knight recovered. "Okay, I'm ready," he said, and together they headed back to the comm shack.

...

   Lamb woke herself coughing, and groggily realized that someone brought a soft cloth to her mouth and was lifting her to sit upright. She didn't realize that it wasn't Danse until she looked up from the cloth, which she had taken a hold of, and saw instead a woman with dark hair and grief etched into her face. 

   "Wh-" Lamb started to rasp, but was cut off by the woman bringing an open canteen up to her lips. 

   "Drink this," she said sharply. She made sure Lamb had her free hand on it before releasing it, and turned to rummage through a small sling bag.

   "My name is Marcy," She said before she pulled out a glass jar with what looked like medicine tablets inside. Lamb hoped they weren't pre-war. 

   "I'm Lamb," She managed to croak between sips. The cool water was soothing, her fever was starting to make her skin feel hot and dry. "No Med-X?" She asked with some relief, looking over the jar again. She'd found out the hard way that Med-X didn't actually numb pain, just that it made her sick.

   "It's for emergencies. These are just pain killers. We had a chemist where we used to live." She looked almost uncomfortable for a moment before continuing. "I went into his shop before we left and grabbed what i could. Not like it could help us then anyways." Her words dripped with bitter sadness.

   Lamb looked up at her again. "What happened?" She wheezed.

   Marcy told her. About the Minutemen, about the Gunners, about the betrayal, the massacre, about her son, how they fled and were continually picked off  by the scum of the Commonwealth, how they found themselves trapped in Concord's Museum of Freedom, how a woman had stormed in and saved them, how she'd escorted them to Sanctuary. 

   She stopped there, and Lamb could tell through the fog in her mind that Marcy thought she'd said too much. This was probably the first time she'd talked about it, with anyone. Though from her story, her husband, Jun, needed to talk about it more so than she did.

   "I'm so sorry," Lamb said quietly, at a loss for words of comfort. 

   "Here," She stated abruptly, startling Lamb. "Take two of these. I'll bring you some more water later," Marcy said, her voice and mannerisms stiffening again. 

   Lamb stayed quiet as she left the room, nauseously thinking about what had befallen the few survivors.

   She set the canteen aside on the desk next to the bed and got up, quickly finding her clothes on the other side of the desk. She shakily changed, sliding her boots under the bed and stopping to cough up more rusty phlegm before stuffing her dirty clothing into her pack. She sat back heavily onto the bed and saw that Danse's pack and bedroll were still tied to her things. She numbly wondered if he'd gotten to the radio yet. 

   Lamb heard a quiet, familiar noise at the door. She heaved herself back off the bed and went to greet her new guest.

...

   Danse had asked Preston more about the "Doc" that made regular trips to the settlement while he and Sturges scanned for the proper frequency. Apparently the man was well-equipped, always coming up with medical equipment and supplies that almost no one in the Commonwealth had access to. Preston assured him that he would have antibiotics to treat Lamb, and that he was _always_ on time. Being on-time was rare in the Commonwealth. Danse was suspicious about the doctor, but he hoped the Minuteman was right.

   "I got it!" Sturges suddenly crowed. He got up from his seat the radio desk and let Danse have the mic.

   Ten minutes later, Danse's report was in and he was brimming with excitement.  _The Prydwen is here in the Commonwealth!_

   After Danse had powered down the desk unit, Preston had asked  _What the heck is a Prydwen?_ Danse managed to answer his somewhat sarcastic question with a proud and almost giddy description of the airship, leaving Preston looking more and more stressed. Danse was busy gushing and didn't notice the Minuteman's distaste for the Brotherhood's flying fortress.

   The Paladin seemed to remember why he was in town and stopped mid sentence. "I need to get back to my Knight."

   "Have either of you eaten today?" Preston asked, not seeming to have heard Danse's statement. Danse hesitated, then shook his head. "There's leftover radstag stew the two of you can have for tonight. Mama Murphy made it last night for everyone. C'mon. She's next door." 

   Danse didn't really have any other option than to follow the Minuteman to the blue house next to the comm shack in the cul-de-sac.

   Danse found Mama Murphy to be pleasant, if not a bit...  _drug-addled._ He could see the signs of long-term chem abuse, but the old woman didn't seem to be as  _itchy_ as some of the other addicts he'd encountered in the Commonwealth. She seemed more like a small, frail grandmother whose grandson brought a friend over. Danse introduced himself, and gave a brief introduction of his absent Knight. She merely nodded as though he'd just confirmed a rumor for her.

   She asked Preston how things were, how he was doing, if Sturges was stopping by later. Then she mentioned something about "The Sight," causing Preston to steer the conversation elsewhere. Danse made a mental note to gather more information on "The Sight," whatever it may turn out to be. Unless the old woman was completely off her rocker, of course.

   Danse and Preston left the house that Mama Murphy apparently shared with Marcy and her husband. Danse carried a covered stew pot while Preston carried a small, crudely woven basket of slightly stale bread. Danse had thanked Mama Murphy, she had covered his hand with both of hers, and whispered  _"She's the trouble you need."_

   She'd said it quickly and quietly so Preston wouldn't hear. Danse wondered what the hell kind of town they'd stumbled into.

   They saw Marcy on the short walk back.  _"She's waiting for you,"_ she'd said brusquely as she paused.  _"I think she has pneumonia. She needs the Doc."_

   Danse felt his stomach twist. He'd known from the bloody coughs that it was bad, but now her state was confirmed. He decided that if the doctor wasn't in town by the next afternoon, he'd radio for a vertibird. 

   Preston opened the door of their temporary lodgings and greeted Sturges, who was in the living room, sitting on a shredded love seat, tinkering with the guts of an old radio. "Help yourselves to the kitchen," he called before Danse could say hello. 

   The kitchen was quite cramped, but the pair managed to navigate around each other to collect cutlery and bowls without incident. Preston filled a pitcher from the sink, indicating to Danse that they'd been busy, replacing the plumbing in the house, setting up purifiers and wells. It was probably the cleanest water he'd encountered in months. He relished the brief scent of uncontaminated water.

   They headed back to the room, Danse holding the food, Preston carrying the water and glasses. Danse gently tapped the bottom of the door with his foot to knock before turning the handle with his elbow, and pushed the door open with his hip. "Knight?"

   There was a lit lamp on the far side of the desk, showing that there was an unusually large lump under the blankets. A rasping _"Yeah?"_ answered him as the lump began to move. He figured out what he was seeing.

   A massive dog was on the bed, cuddled up to Lamb like a teddy bear.

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- what's up everyone i'm not dead but i am permaexhausted  
> \- i have a tumblr of the same name and my posts abt lamb are tagged with 'oc talk'  
> \- turn on music to write to and instantly destroyed by wolf's rain ost  
> \- oh my god i unplugged the laptop to move it and lost half my progress   
> \- i keep listening to 'dark country' playlists and i'm just like. dark country play me the forbidden banjo  
> \- danse listens to dark country it's fuckgin canon bc 'dark country' tends to lean towards its bluegrass roots abt the struggles of the working class  
> \- god it's been so long since i had an actual fever and now i feel like i'm cursing myself by writing this to get sick soon  
> \- me suddenly: what the FUCK are radios  
> \- preston, upon seeing the brotherhood in the commonwealth: what to heck?????  
> \- danse running in his armor under his own power how much ap does this boi have  
> \- me writing: what the FUCK am i doing  
> \- i'm so tired


	3. It Wasn't Really A Secret She Was Just Too Afraid To Say Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ooo some not-really-a-secret secrets

“Where did this dog come from?” Danse asked as he set their dinner on the desk, far enough away from the bed so no curious noses could get to it.

   “That’s Dogmeat,” Preston answered, freeing his hands up and reaching over to fondly pet the big dog’s head. “He’s our resident morale booster. He just got back from, well, _somewhere_ last night.”

   Dogmeat’s tail thumped comically under the blankets.

…

   After they’d both eaten under the watchful eyes of Dogmeat, Lamb finishing her meal long after Danse, Sturges had knocked on the door and directed Danse to the bath house nearby. He’d helped Lamb stay upright as Danse gathered up some mostly clean clothing and then held onto her as they walked out to the small, previously unnoticed shack.

   It was hidden in some ancient, overgrown hedges; a small rectangular building made of sheet metal and wood. Sturges informed them that towels and soap were already waiting for them and headed back to the house to continue working on his radio.

   The bath house was a pair of rather large stalls, each containing a toilet and bathtub, with a sink and dingy mirror placed on the wall between them. The tubs had patched curtains drawn to one corner, and both tubs had a length of pipe holding a shower head that looked tall enough that Danse could actually stand underneath. The Prydwen didn’t even have that.

   The stall closest to the yellow house had the threadbare towels and homemade hubflower soap stacked on the tank of the toilet. He urged Lamb in first, but she refused.

   “You hauled ass here, Danse,” she said. “You stink.”

   He made a mock-offended noise, but went in anyway.

   Danse had actually _moaned_ when he stepped into the hot spray of the shower. His back was beginning to stiffen from the exertion that morning. But pain or no pain, he kept it short, not wanting to waste water or heat, scrubbing himself quickly. He hesitantly left the first hot shower he’d had in months.

   Lamb was seated on the lower step that led into the bath house when Danse emerged wearing a gray t-shirt and formerly black sweat pants. Dogmeat was again with her. “Have a good time?” she asked, her voice crackling a bit as she turned slightly so Danse could see her amused smile.

   _Oh_ , he thought. She’d heard him.

   He held out his handful of foamy soap. “Wash up, Knight.”

   Lamb shakily stood without assistance and took the wet bar of soap from him, and gently pushed him out of the doorway so she could bathe.

…

   Danse settled in for the night, Lamb’s open sleeping bag over him. He’d tried to drape it over her, thinking she was asleep like the dog at her side, only for her to open one eye to a slit and glare at him. She wheezed out that he should use it, since he was sleeping on the cold floor.

   The room they’d been bunked in had apparently been the home’s bathroom in a past life, but had been repurposed after the settler’s attempts to repair the plumbing failed, and they’d built the little bath house instead. The tiles still remained, but now had a few extra scratches and cracks from Danse’s armor. He hoped the room’s owner wouldn’t notice.

   Danse saw that Lamb was already asleep, propped up in hopes of keeping her from spending the night coughing. Danse folded his arm under his head and closed his eyes, already falling asleep.

…

   Lamb spent the night somewhat restless, muffling her coughs into a pillow to avoid waking the whole house. A few times she hacked up a lot of phlegm and other gunk, and Dogmeat would whine and lick the tears from her face as she regained her breath.

   The morning came and she heard the settlement wake up.

   She hoped the doctor showed.

…

   He did, and Lamb recognized him through the misery of her condition. Middle aged, close-shaved gray hair, brown eyes, a scar on his cheek, not much taller than Lamb herself.

   _Doctor Barnes._

    She pretended to not know him, not know that he was an Institute doctor, to not know that he defied Institute ideologies in favor of helping the people living on the surface.

   Danse waited somewhat anxiously out in the living room with Sturges, helping the handyman reassemble the radio from the previous night while Doc Barnes had a look at Lamb.

…

   _Volkert and I told you to stay another few weeks or so. You weren’t finished healing up. The vaccines and immune-boosters needed more time to take hold._

_And?_

_Now you’ve got pneumonia in both lungs and it’s going to take about six weeks of intensive treatment to make sure you recover properly with minimal damage to your lungs._

_Fuck._

_Fuck is right. I know you won’t go back underground willingly so I’ll treat you here. Your new ‘friend’ seems willing to help you. Guess you’ll know whether he’s a keeper or not during this._

_Funny, Doc, real funny._

...

   Lamb was given a rather large IV bag of Barnes’ ‘ _special blend,’_ as he called it, before he left. It made her mouth taste like cold steel and she had to pee before the bag was done. She couldn’t head for the bath house for ten increasingly uncomfortable minutes while Dogmeat tried his hardest to plant his paws directly onto her bladder.

   He also brought in what Lamb thought was a nebulizer from his overloaded wagon, setting it up on the desk. It turned out to be an oxygen concentrator, Institute-new despite its aged appearance. He instructed both Lamb and Danse on how to keep it running, how to clean it, and emphasized that she should be using it constantly. _Yes you can move it around. Just be careful with it, and don’t let the tubes get tangled while it’s in use._

   Danse was suspicious of where the Doc got his supplies, but opted to keep it to himself. Instead of asking the questions roiling around in him, he simply watched as the older man dug through his supplies, searching for everything he needed for Lamb’s treatment.

   Doc Barnes wrote down a detailed schedule for the various medications he’d piled into an old plastic milk crate. He left them with antibiotic IV drips and pills, an inhaler, the concentrator, packs of supplements and probiotics, and a demonstration of how to wail on Lamb’s back to break up mucus.

   …

   The next few days were a fog to Lamb. Danse and Marcy took turns making sure she didn’t wander off in a feverish trance during the rare occasion that she was out of bed. She saw Jun once or twice hauling supplies to and from the gardens the settlers were creating.

   Danse still slept on the floor opposite Lamb’s bed on a pile of sleeping bags and mats, lulled by the white noise of the concentrator but sometimes startled awake, reaching for his rifle, by bouts of harsh coughing.

   One of those feverish days Lamb was deep asleep when she was brought to near-consciousness by the familiar sound of hysterically angry yelling. Later, she thought she heard someone come into the room, shuffling about as quietly as they could, opening drawers and such.

   A few days later, when the fevers had finally subsided for good, Danse brought her up to speed.

   The woman who’d brought Preston and the other survivors to Sanctuary, Anne, had found out she (Danse had said _it_ and was met with Lamb’s irritated _she_ ) was a synth in the search for her son. She’d been with the detective, whose room they were occupying, and had tracked a mercenary down to an old military fort, killed him, and had taken a brain implant to retrieve memories from.

   Lamb listened intently with mounting horror.

   Danse told her what the detective had said: that they’d gone to some town called Goodneighbor where a place called The Memory Den was supposed to give them their answers. But what they got instead was quite the shock.

   The woman had come all the way back to Sanctuary with the detective, Nick Valentine. While Nick was with Preston, she’d gone into her old house across the street and had gone berserk, tearing up the nursery, smashing a crib out through the window.

   Danse had stayed in the yellow house, guarding the doorway, in case the mad synth decided to pay them a visit. But she hadn’t, instead she’d started _screaming,_ at Nick, at Preston, telling them that everything she was had been a lie. She completely lost all sense as she raved in the street. Danse didn’t want to repeat everything she’d said to them, instead skipping forward to when she stormed out of town, carrying nothing but a silenced pistol on an ammo-laden belt.

   Nick had asked Danse to help him gather some things from his room where Lamb slept, looking and sounding deeply hurt. He’d collected some files and a few trinkets and had taken up residence in the woman’s old house.

   Lamb was clearly disturbed, but Danse attributed it to having a _synth_ stirring up trouble in the town.

   Danse was right, but not entirely the way he thought.

…

   She met Nick the day after, as he answered her rasped questions amicably, she could see the deep lines of sadness carving their way into his face.

   _Anne came charging into that vault with Piper like a couple of Furies. Got me out easy enough; she convinced my previous case to go home and talked Skinny Malone down in the same breath._

   The synth had been his partner, helping him help the Commonwealth, helping him figure himself out.

 _She was a damn fine partner._ He’d paused, looked down at his bare metal hand, and started fiddling with a loose screw in his thumb. _And a damn fine friend._

   And now she was gone, her spirit broken; and maybe her mind, too

Later, Lamb apologized for taking over his room, but he dismissed it easily, saying he didn’t truly have a use for a _bed_ room.

…

   She waited another week, until she could speak for more than a few words without coughing up off-color mucus. She asked Danse to bring Preston and Nick into the room while he was hooking her up to an antibiotic drip.

   Danse was seated by her feet on the bed, Nick half-sat on the desk, and Preston sat in the desk’s creaking chair in front of her.

   “You need to know something. A-about me, I guess. And Anne,” Lamb started, her voice shaking. She sputtered out another false start before Preston placed a calming hand on her arm.

   Lamb took as deep a breath as she could manage.

   “Anne was the synth meant to replace me when I almost died in Vault 111. That was _me_ you saw in Kellogg’s memories.”

   Nick’s soft _oh_ was the only sound aside from Lamb’s breathing in the crowded room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will have her story and actual depictions of danse having to do normal ppl stuff probably

**Author's Note:**

> \- hey google can u tell me abt coughing fits no okay  
> \- danse: please don't die i've only known u for a few weeks but i don't think i could take it   
> \- GOD the title generator gave me some GOLD for lamb but like. spoilers  
> \- i'm trying to write but also watching the ranchos ep of mbmbam and crying  
> \- THE COMPUTER GOT UNPLUGGED AND IT DIED INSTANTLY BUT AO3 GOT MY BACK  
> \- i've never once maintained a constant pov nor do i intend to  
> \- i started this on the 16th  
> \- i'm having a love affair with commas  
> \- IRMA IS COMING FOR OUR ASSES LET THIS BE MY LEGACY  
> \- hey did u guys know that i still don't know how to use a laser musket in-game  
> \- okay but for real i might not be able to update for a while bc irma is on her way and i'm in west palm beach so uh i might get whacked


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